


Forever I've Known

by Antheas_Blackberry



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop, Books, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Date Night, Depressed Crowley (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Freckles, Frottage, Gift Giving, Grief, Grieving, Hopeless Idiots in Love, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Migraine, Pining, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Sexual Situations, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, TLC, Wine, Wings, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), demonic interventions, more tags to be added as needed, preening, short pieces or snippets shall we say, somewhat clueless Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:17:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 10,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: A series of possibly connected (but possibly not) short pieces/drabbles or whatever you'd like to call them about a pair of idiots in love.





	1. Next door

**Author's Note:**

> Like everyone else I know, I've gotten a _wee_ bit obsessed by the show. Apologies in advance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to Tanith Lee for re-appropriating her dialogue. 
> 
> https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0500260/

They’d once again made their way through several bottles of wine. It had occurred to both of them at one point or another to wonder how they always seemed to have _just_ the perfect bottle, or rather bottles of wine on hand, usually while drunk and then never bothered to recall the thought until the next drunk reminiscence.

There had been some minor disagreement or other, of heaven or hell and all that was in between. Aziraphale was sulking in the way in which he tended to sulk when he felt he was being put upon. And Crowley? Crowley was smirking. He was sitting in a chair next to the sofa, lounging in that terribly annoying and distracting way where all his limbs seemed to be everywhere, like an octopus; all lean and limber. His sunglasses had been discarded on the coffee table two bottles previous.

Crowley chuckled drunkenly. Aziraphale raised his head from his position on the sofa and cracked an eye open.

“Oh angel, I’m just the boy next door,” he said, his voice teasing, lilting.

Aziraphale sighed in his prim manner, but there wasn’t as much bite to it as normal. He was quite inebriated. He struggled for a moment to upright himself before answering.

“If you were the boy next door, I’d move."

“Where would you move to, Aziraphale?” Crowley countered, leaning in towards the angel, eyes glinting devilishly.

“Next door.” The angel grinned smugly. He then leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to Crowley’s.


	2. Did you just . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the previous.

“Did you just,” Crowley began. He stopped, sputtered, and started speaking again. In an essence, he was flabbergasted. “Did you just _kiss_ me?” 

Aziraphale grinned smugly again. “Yes, yes I believe I did.”

Crowley stared at him, unblinking and Aziraphale was beginning he had read the room incorrectly, so to speak. He sat back in his chair; the slight flush that had risen on his cheeks was all but gone and he had paled significantly.

“Oh, dear me. I am sorry.” Swallowing hard, Aziraphale looked down at his hands, which he had twisted into knots. 

Crowley’s brain finally rebooted itself and he came to his senses. He reached over and placed his hand over Aziraphale’s pale and knotted digits. It had only been seconds, but to the angel, it felt like centuries. He exhaled audibly.

When their eyes met again, Aziraphale was overwhelmed with the love that he saw in Crowley’s gorgeous, shining eyes. He untangled his fingers, took Crowley’s hand in his and smiled.


	3. Dust to dust

Crowley, as a general rule, tended to avoid the main area of the book shop. For one, he didn’t read (well he did _read_ , just not in the way that Aziraphale absolutely _devoured_ books) and two, it was plagued (quite literally he had begun to think) with dust.

It was maybe a month after they had swapped places. They’d settled into a quiet routine now, with most days spent at the book shop, almost as if they had to be there to ensure all had not been lost; as if it were ephemeral.

Crowley had been debating what they might drink this evening. Scotch or wine; he’d pondered for at least a good portion of an afternoon, while he’d been curled up on Aziraphale’s old couch, basking in the last of the sun. 

Having decided on a wine, he got annoyed at waiting for Aziraphale to finish puttering around the shop, doing heav . . .hell . . .argh _someone_ knows what. He idly wandered further into the interior recesses of the shop, intent on dragging the angel away to get properly plastered.

Following the sound of soft murmuring, Crowley meandered past stacks of books and increasingly dusty shelves and even more ancient tomes. He wondered if Aziraphale ever actually dusted or just said that he did. 

He turned a corner to find Aziraphale quietly talking to the books on the shelf in front of him, almost the direct opposite way that Crowley treated his plants. With this, he had an immediate rush of affection for the angel.

Before Aziraphale had seen him or had a chance to register his presence, Crowley was overcome with a somewhat foreign sensation and before he could will it away, he sneezed violently, nearly toppling over.

Aziraphale startled and turned around. “Oh, my dear Crowley, bless you!” He closed the short distance between them and studied the demon intently. “Are you alright?”

Crowley gave him an irritated look before sneezing just as violently again. 

“Bless you again!” Aziraphale said automatically.

Crowley pulled a face and then regretted it. He knew that Aziraphale couldn’t help himself, being an angel and all. 

“Oh, yes right. Wouldn’t want to upset your sensibilities, Crowley,” Aziraphale said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Crowley took off his sunglasses and rubbed at his eyes. He sniffed. “When’s the last time you dusted in here angel, the 19th century?” He certainly couldn’t resist getting a bit of banter in while he could. If he was a bit dramatic in the matter, well, who could blame him?

Aziraphale gave him a look that he wasn’t quite sure he understood and filed it away for later. The angel then put a hand on Crowley’s arm and began to lead him back towards the living area.

“Well, perhaps I need to make a more concerted effort,” Aziraphale proclaimed, as they arrived back where Crowley had spent the past hours napping. A bottle of wine and two glasses were waiting.

“See that you do,” Crowley muttered, while he poured them each a glass. Aziraphale believed that his annoyance was purely for show at this point and couldn’t keep the silly grin from crossing his face.

“Well, I suppose if you are going to be spending more time here, it’s the least I can do,” Aziraphale said, accepting the glass. He smiled fondly at Crowley.

The fond look made Crowley fall in love with the angel just that much more. If he had to put up with a few blessings in between, it was certainly worth it, for that smile alone.


	4. Preening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Crowley needs a helping hand.

It was by some unspoken agreement that they began to share their lives together, more than they had already been. They ended up gravitating to the book shop, and the living quarters within; given that Crowley’s flat was cold and uninviting, apart from the flora and fauna, that is.

Some things changed, however. The living area above and around the book shop seemed larger than before and was resplendent with plants. And, there was a proper, lush bed, complete with the highest thread count sheets, an assortment of pillows, and a warm duvet. Even though Aziraphale was reluctant to sleep in such an exuberant fashion (or in the quite frankly _ridiculous_ amounts) as Crowley, he stayed close to him at night or when Crowley just needed some extra warmth.

So, this was how Aziraphale found the demon late one morning. He had been up for some time and had fetched some croissants for them both; they had traded off fetching breakfast and tea in the mornings, and today had been the angel’s turn. He was carrying them in on a tray, with a pot of tea and found Crowley rolling about the bed as if he were in exquisite agony.

“My dear boy! Are you hurt?” Aziraphale put the tray down on a bureau and hurried to Crowley’s side. He’d barely been gone a half hour, but anything could have happened. The demons of hell ( _or heaven he supposed, that Gabriel was a bit of a smug bastard he had to admit_ ) could have done almost anything. He began to fear the worst when Crowley didn’t answer, just continued to writhe.

Finally, Crowley rolled over to face Aziraphale. “No, you idiot! I’ve got an itch under my bloody wing, and I can’t do a blasted thing about it! ARGH!” He writhed again, as if doing so would take care of the problem.

Aziraphale let out the breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. “Oh, for goodness sake! I thought something terrible had happened!”

“It hassss,” Crowley hissed. “It itchessss!”

Shaking his head, Aziraphale sat down on the bed beside the writhing demon. He placed a warm hand down on Crowley’s back, and with a blink, miracled his shirt away. He then began to gently scratch neatly manicured nails down the middle of Crowley’s spine, tentatively exploring. Crowley had yet to manifest his wings, in hopes that the angel’s ministrations would alleviate the irritation. 

Aziraphale continued on like this for several minutes, nails gently tracing patterns along Crowley’s spine and shoulder blades. “Is this helping?” He finally dared ask.

Crowley had relaxed considerably under the angel’s touch, but the irritation still plagued him. “Still there,” he said, twitching.

“Well, you’re just going to have to unfurl them, aren’t you?”

Crowley only hissed in response, finally giving in to what he needed. They unfurled majestically, and the deep raven wings caught the morning sunlight and they shined triumphantly. 

Aziraphale was caught off guard momentarily; they didn’t just take their wings out on a whim. Crowley’s were gorgeous, fantastic; he had always believed them to be. He began to reverently smooth them down, taking tender care in his ministrations. They felt like the finest of silk.

“Oh, dear me,” Aziraphale murmured, almost to himself. “I see the problem, dearest.”

One of Crowley’s feathers had slightly bent out of shape and was pressing down in what must have been a terribly uncomfortable manner; no wonder he was irritated. It must have done more than itched, he thought. He carefully smoothed it out and back into place, and he could feel Crowley relax, the tension immediately seeping from him as he relaxed further all but melting down into the mattress.

“Well, I’ll just give them a nice once over, while they’re out, shall I?” Aziraphale didn’t bother to wait for a reply, he just began to gently smooth out the dark feathers; Crowley becoming more and more boneless as he worked. Occasionally, he’d find another feather slightly out of place, and the demon would whimper softly. 

Aziraphale worked quietly, with an occasional “hmmm” or a soft intake of breath as he steadily completed his task until finally, he was done. He bent down and placed a kiss on the back of Crowley’s neck. He breathed in the scent that was distinctly Crowley; a mixture of petrichor and the finest aged whiskey. “All done, my dear.”

With a soft moan of relief, Crowley folded his newly preened wings away. He rolled over on to his side and pulled Aziraphale toward him. Taken off-guard, the angel toppled over on the bed, nearly landing on the demon.

Crowley huffed out a laugh, burrowing his head into Aziraphale’s chest. “Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

“My pleasure,” Aziraphale replied, and then pulled Crowley into a kiss. They had to miracle the tea back to the correct temperature, in the end, but it was worth it.


	5. Date night

_Friday 29 June, 19:00- Soho, London_

Crowley had planned everything. Ok, he had miracled most of the arrangements and would likely have to use a bit more of it (along with his cunning) than usual in a few minutes time, but it was the thought that mattered, right? Now, all he had to do was convince Aziraphale to trust him. 

He found Aziraphale at his ridiculously untidy desk (Crowley wondered how Aziraphale actually ever found anything amongst the detritus), adding something to the ledger. He had sold a book earlier (a new one that ended up in the shop after its resurrection) and was humming to himself. The angel looked up and smiled as Crowley entered. His smile grew when he saw that Crowley was carrying one single rose.

“Oh Crowley, you shouldn’t have!” Aziraphale exclaimed, although his expression told a different story. Shakespeare should have written sonnets about his smile, Crowley thought, not for the first time.

Crowley returned the grin, but Azirphale could read Crowley like one of his treasured books, and he could tell that the demon was nervous. “What is it my dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, rising from his seat to take the rose. It smelled _heavenly_.

“Would you do me the honour of going to the theatre with me?” Crowley asked. He had taken off his sunglasses so Aziraphale could see the desire and sincerity in his eyes, even though his yearning was rolling off him in waves.

“Of course, my dear. What are we going to see, if I may ask?” 

“Do you trust me, Angel?” Crowley asked, avoiding the question.

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale said, but Crowley could tell he was a bit wary. He supposed it was hard for the angel to break a habit of a lifetime. Especially that of one spanning six millennia.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, Crowley thought as he snapped his fingers. Aziraphale was suddenly in a new suit. It was exactly the same ensemble he had been wearing a second ago, only this time all of the materials were in the finest, lightweight linen. Out of habit, Aziraphale’s fingers immediately went to the bowtie to straighten it. Crowley couldn’t help but help his angel, placing his hands over Aziraphale’s to straighten the already perfectly positioned tartan tie. 

Looking down at his new attire, Aziraphale gave a soft huff of nervous laughter. “Where _are_ we going, Crowley?” 

Crowley pulled Aziraphle close, kissing him tenderly. “Hold on, angel,” he murmured against the angel’s soft lips, “and think of Homer.” He gave Aziraphale a cheeky wink and slid his sunglasses down from where they had been resting atop his head. With a final snap of his fingers, they were gone.

 

 

 

 

_Friday 29 June, 19:30- Crete, Greece_

The first thing Aziraphale realised was that it was hot. Bloody _hot_. The second, was that he recognised where they were. He had been here a very long time ago indeed. The Ancient Theatre of Aptera was a very fine, open air theatre and if he recalled correctly, had not been in use for hundreds, if not thousands of years.

They were standing outside the theatre, which was not yet open. People were milling about, talking quietly. Some were queueing for refreshments; the scent of honey and roasted almonds tantalisingly filling the air. 

“It’s not been open for seventeen centuries,” Crowley murmured, somehow picking up on Aziraphale’s thoughts. “I thought you might like to see it again, now that it’s been restored to its original glory.”

“Oh Crowley, this is wonderful. Thank you.” Aziraphale beamed, and quickly placed a light kiss to the demon’s cheek.

Crowley tried to shrug the praise away; he couldn’t help but smile himself, seeing how absolutely thrilled his angel was. “Can I tempt you to some baklava, Angel?” 

Aziraphale could be tempted by almost anything, if it involved Crowley, and they both knew it. “Temptation accomplished, dearest.” He linked his arm through Crowley’s. “Lead the way, my dear. Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw this on Facebook this morning and immediately thought that these idiots in love needed to go.
> 
> https://www.greece10best.com/ancient-theatre-in-greece-re-opens-after-17-centuries/?fbclid=IwAR0jBwIgyFuI2A0ETrbU5rmVh6uN3sPQoWkP8akYpoqi3BC32-3TjKoHqxg


	6. All that you want, you can have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Aziraphale have what he's always craved?

After they’d faced their sides, so to speak, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves (back in their own bodies) standing outside the book shop. Aziraphale found himself frozen to the spot, unable to move. His bookshop was standing! He was overcome with emotion and stood there, fingers knotted together in front of him, as he tried to reign in his emotions. A few tears escaped, but he did not bother to wipe them away. They glistened in the late afternoon sunshine.

Crowley stood beside him, also stunned, only with unwelcome emotions. The last time he’d been here, he would have raised heaven and earth or faced down all the demon hounds of hell to find Aziraphale safe and sound. He could still smell the burning leather, the incinerated parchment of old. He shuddered to his very core.

They stood, shoulder to shoulder as the traffic of Soho passed around them, unnoticing. A car came around the corner, music blaring from its speakers.

_There's a world where you can  
All that you lost, you get back  
And all that you want, you can have_

The lyrics broke them out of their individual reveries, and they turned to face one another. Crowley reached out and brushed away Aziraphale’s tears. The angel smiled shakily at the touch.

All that they had lost, they had got back; that was true, thought Aziraphale. Did this mean he could have what he had so desperately wanted, for so long?

“Angel?” Crowley asked.

“Let’s go inside, my dear,” Aziraphale finally said, as he reached out and took Crowley’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics come from Wild West, by Lissie
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FwiywQBjjEk


	7. Fake news

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale reads the paper and poses a question.

As per usual, Aziraphale couldn’t resist being tempted into a long, leisurely breakfast featuring the freshest and fluffiest brioche this side of the Channel. How did Crowley _find_ these places, he mused to himself. He was perusing the newspaper while he finished his pot of tea; Crowley having already completed the crossword in ink and had shoved it aside when he had finished.

Crowley was contemplating what acts of mischief to involve himself in for the remainder of the day, until it was time to get pissed. He was choosing between Big Ben chiming for the remainder of the day (despite the refurbishments currently taking place) and crashing Facebook, Instagram and Twitter all at the same time, when Aziraphale sighed heavily, folding the paper neatly, of course, beside him.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at the angel’s frustration. He was about to ask what the problem was when Aziraphale began to speak.

“I suppose this is your doing then?” The Principality gestured at the newspaper.

“You’ll have to be more specific, Angel,” Crowley replied, smirking.

“Oh, do _behave_ , Crowley!” Aziraphale spat, irritated.

Crowley held up his hands in surrender.  “Sorry.  What’s the matter?”

Aziraphale’s face fell. He wasn’t really irritated with Crowley; how could he be? He was frustrated with the state of the world; after everything that had happened, human kind was still hell bent on being absolutely horrid to one another.

“Did you invent fake news, Crowley?” The angel finally asked.

Crowley sat in stunned silence for a moment.  He was hurt that his angel would think him capable of such utter nonsense. He looked around for a moment to make sure no one was paying attention to either of them, and once he was certain, he removed his sunglasses. Before he opened his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to relieve a headache.

“No, Angel, that wasn’t me.  And as far as I know, it wasn’t anyone on my er, old _side_.” He looked directly at the angel so that he could see that Crowley was being honest.

Aziraphale looked down at the crumbs on his plate and pushed them around with a finger. “Apologies, my dear. I’m sorry for accusing you.” He looked up and tried to give the demon a smile, but it didn’t quite reach angelic proportions.

“I know it’s hard for you to accept it, but human kind is really good at being absolutely horrible to one another, without any kind of intervention,” Crowley said.

“Oh, I accept it,” Aziraphale replied. “It doesn’t mean I have to like it one bit.”

They were quiet for a few minutes. Crowley finally reached out and put his hand over Aziraphale’s and squeezed it for a moment.  He was relieved when the angel looked up and offered a genuine smile in return.

“Another brioche, Angel? More tea? Cocoa?” Crowley asked, trying to restore the mood before removing his hand. He slid his sunglasses back on.

“Some more tea would be nice. And a brioche.  But you have to split it with me,” Aziraphale tempted.

Crowley merely grinned and raised his hand to beckon over the waiter. Anything to keep that smile on his Angel’s face.

 

 


	8. Time is a riddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley naps while Aziraphale gets himself into a bit of bother.

It was a warm, sunny day and Crowley was making the best of it. By making the best of it, he was currently curled up on a sofa, in a sunny spot, in Ariraphale’s book shop. Somehow, the sofa seemed to follow the sun’s rays throughout the afternoon. 

Aziraphale had told Crowley that he was going to look for a book in one of the storerooms; anything beyond that the currently napping demon had completely ignored as soon as the angel had said ‘look’, as he didn’t really care about anything1 more than his impending nap.

He wasn’t quite sure how long he had been sleeping for, when a terribly loud crash rendered him conscious. His first immediate thought was ‘Angel!’ Without realising, Crowley was on his feet and running towards the back of the shop. 

Crowley found the storeroom in a right state; books and papers were everywhere. The air was thick with dust and it took him a moment to clear the air enough to see that Aziraphale was face down on the floor, a bookcase resting precariously on top of him. 

Crowley froze and felt that time itself had ceased to exist. His chest felt tight and he had the overwhelming urge to scream, yet he was completely paralyzed by fear. Seconds ticked past as dust motes swirled around the room. 

The demon was shocked out of his paralysis by a vociferous sneeze from the bottom of the wreckage. “Angel!” Crowley cried. With a wave of his hand, the bookcase was once again upright, and then he was down on the ground, pulling Aziraphale to him, running his hands over him, checking for any signs of injury.

Crowley got them both into a sitting position and continued to ensure that his angel was unharmed, his hands roaming with tender care. Aziraphale ran an unsteady hand across his own face, smearing his cheek with dust. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose, trying to will the minuscule particles away. 

Crowley spoke at the exact moment Aziraphale sneezed a second time. The demon asking, ‘are you ok?’ at the very same time the angel sneezed seemed quite humorous to them both. They leaned on one another, giggling hysterically, the nervous tension broken.

After the nervous laughter had petered off, Crowley studied Aziraphale carefully. He placed his hands gently on both sides of the angel’s face, gently caressing the soft skin, before lovingly kissing his lips. 

Aziraphale relaxed into the kiss, pressing his forehead to Crowley’s. He closed his eyes to better commit this tender moment to memory.  
When he finally opened his eyes, Crowley was regarding him in a similar manner; as if the demon was trying hold this moment in his heart. Aziraphale reached out and took his hand in his.

“I’m fine, my dear,” Aziraphale finally said, his voice quiet.

Crowley nodded, not quite yet ready to trust his own voice. He felt like a livewire; adrenaline coursing through him with enough energy to reactivate Battersea Power Station. He reached out and removed a tendril of dust and cobwebs from Aziraphale’s blonde curls, and then blew it away into the ether, before slithering to his feet.

He held out a hand to his angel, and Aziraphale, with much less grace and dignity got to his feet. They looked around them, surveying the damage. Crowley knew he could wave a hand or snap his fingers and the room would be set to rights again, but he knew that Aziraphale would want to do it by hand, checking each book and parchment to ensure they were in pristine condition. 

“This will take some time to sort,” Aziraphale said, as if reading Crowley’s thoughts.

Crowley agreed with a vague sort noise, that on anyone else would have been a sign of disinterest. Aziraphale knew it was just his way of avoiding his feelings and didn’t take it to heart.

“Well, the books aren’t going anywhere, now are they?” Aziraphale mused out loud. “Tea?” He asked Crowley and held out his hand for the demon to take.

“Tea sounds fine, Angel,” Crowley said. He reached out for Aziraphale, and once his hand was in his, the demon felt the tension begin to slowly fade away. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: He did obviously care about Aziraphale, but really couldn’t be bothered to listen to exactly what book the angel was in search for as he was certain he would hear all about it over tea, wine, and possibly breakfast the following day.


	9. Weight of love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place directly after the previous chapter.

Aziraphale made the tea properly, as he normally did. He enjoyed the ritual, and this time was no different. The tea making began to soothe his frayed nerves, and he finally brought out the cups and handed one to Crowley.

However, he didn’t say anything about how it tasted suspiciously as if someone had miracled a shot of whiskey into it once it had been brewed. Crowley drank his quietly, tension still radiating from him; not as much as it had been a few moments ago, but it was there, an undercurrent crackling between them.

The angel watched Crowley fidget and pace for a few minutes but didn’t say a word. He then watched as the demon finally put his cup down on the table and stalked out of the room at speed.

While Crowley had been drinking, he had been thinking. How had that book shelf collapsed so easily? He remembered when Aziraphale had them installed, well over a century- no close to two centuries ago now. They were extraordinarily heavy and sturdy and had the angel not been an angel, he might not have survived. 

He entered the back storeroom and surveyed the damage, and then took a look at the book shelf itself, where his suspicions were confirmed in a dusty footprint. Jaw set, and his hands clenched into fists, he marched back to where Aziraphale was still standing with his tea.

“Would you like a biscuit, my dear? I’ve got some lovely,” Azirphale began, more calmly then he felt. He put his cup down as if he was about to head back into the kitchen to fetch the biscuits.

“Are you an _idiot_?” Crowley shouted, cutting him off, questioning him. He was standing right in front of the angel, sunglasses still removed, so that Aziraphale could fully see the emotion and anger radiating from him.

Aziraphale avoided Crowley’s glistening, amber eyes. They were so expressive, and he loved them and the demon dearly, but right now it was far too much for him. He lowered his head in supplication; his hands knotted together, and he worried at the ring on his pinky finger.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered. “I had no idea that the shelf would just,” he paused, making a hopeless gesture with his hands, his voice cracking.

Crowley sighed heavily. He reached out and placed a hand under Aziraphale’s chin, gently raising his head back up. “I was terrified when I saw you lying there,” he said.

He leaned in and kissed Aziraphale softly; his own apology, his worry, his love all expressed embodied within it. The angel sighed into it; his lips warm against Crowley’s.

They stood like that for a few quiet moments, until Crowley stepped back to fetch their now tepid cups of tea. With a thought, they were steaming once again.

“I’m buying you a step-ladder, Angel.” Crowley stated unequivocally, after a minute.

“Very well, my dear. Very well,” Aziraphale agreed with a fond smile.


	10. Summer in the city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's fine weather for snakes, but not really for grumpy angels.

Summer has finally arrived in London, and it is _hot_. Crowley is absolutely thrilled and divides his time between his human and snake form lying directly in the sun. Aziraphale is less than happy about the change in temperature, as it is entirely too hot to wear a long-sleeved shirt, velvet waistcoat, and jacket- never mind a tie! 

He has closed the bookshop for the foreseeable future and spends all his time in the back room, directly in front of a fan. He has conceded to the weather and is currently wearing a short-sleeved cream coloured linen shirt and a pair of caramel coloured trousers of the same linen blend. It doesn’t make him feel any cooler, nor has it improved his temperament. 

He is trying to do a translation, but he’s read the same sentence over and over for a good twenty minutes without comprehension. He wants a cup of tea but can’t be bothered to boil the kettle or waste a miracle on a hot beverage which won’t make him feel any cooler. Grumpily, he kicks out at the desk, as if it can be blamed for the weather and global warming. 

Aziraphale isn’t sure how long he sits there grumbling to himself, but is distracted by a long, black snake slithering up his leg and curling up in his lap. As fond as he is of Crowley, it is entirely too hot for a lapful of snake. 

“Get off, you foul fiend!” Aziraphale exclaims, but his words lack any real bite to them. 

Seconds later, his lap is filled with Crowley in his human form, warm and languid from his nap. 

“What’sssss wrong, Angel?” Crowley hissed, still a bit sleepy. “I could hear you grumbling from the other side of the shop.”

“It’s too hot, Crowley!” Aziraphale wipes his damp brow with the back of his hand as if to demonstrate how hot he is.

Crowley slithers to his feet with a shrug. “S’fine for snakes.”

“Well, it’s entirely too hot for me!” Aziraphale pouts, crossing his arms in front of him.

Crowley can’t help but laugh. His angel is acting like a petulant child, which only makes him that much more endearing. 

The demon holds out his hand. “Come on, Angel. I’ll buy you an ice cream.”

Aziraphale pauses before reaching out for Crowley’s long fingers. 

“With a flake?” He asks with a hopeful smile, taking Crowley’s warm hand in his. Even after six thousand years, he feels a spark when they touch, and it’s a start in improving Aziraphale’s cantankerous mood.

“With a flake. And we’ll find a nice place in the shade. Alright, Angel?” Crowley gives him a tender look.

“I think it’s a splendid idea. Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale says, kissing Crowley’s cheek gently, before they walk out together into the summer sun.


	11. A quiet evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is tense. Aziraphale helps.

Some weeks after the end of the world that wasn’t, Aziraphale and Crowley were sat in the book shop on an evening. There was an open bottle of wine, as usual, glasses being topped up by one or the other. The angel was reading from a book he had just acquired from a rare book dealer that very day. Crowley wasn’t really listening to the words, more of the tone and tempo of his angel’s voice.

“Isn’t that amazing, my dear?” Aziraphale said, looking up from the book. He placed it down on the table and rested his reading glasses on the tome.

“Yeah, great Angel.” Crowley spun his sunglasses around idly.

“Were you listening to a word I said?” Aziraphale said, feigning annoyance.

“Of course.” 

“Really?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“No.” 

Aziraphale laughed and sipped his wine. “It’s fine, dearest.”

“I was listening to the sound of your voice.” Crowley murmured.

The angel’s face lit up and he smiled affectionately at his demon.

Crowley had to turn away from the tender look. He took a long swig of wine, and then rearranged himself on the sofa, so that his head was in Aziraphale’s lap.

Facing away, Crowley was able to finally continue. “I find it soothing.”

“Oh, my dear.” He placed a hand over his heart. “Shall I continue then?” 

Crowley hummed a murmur of consent and felt the sofa shift as Aziraphale picked up his reading glasses and book. He picked up where he had left off. The hand not holding the book, came to rest in the demon’s hair, and he began to card his fingers through the soft, short waves. 

Finally, Crowley stopped fighting the tension that had been curled inside him. He didn’t know why he was still so tense and on edge. He kept expecting archangels and dukes of hell to arrive on their doorstop, even though he was fairly certain that they had a reprieve. He closed his eyes, focusing on the dual sensation of Aziraphale’s touch and voice, and slowly but surely began to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to offer up ideas/prompts/suggestions. :)


	12. Aziraphale joins the 20th century

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale joins the 20th century. Crowley is amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive a grieving fan another indulgence.

One of Aziraphale’s new pastimes was to go to car boot and jumble sales in search of old books. Most of the time he was sorely disappointed, but he met the most interesting people in doing so. He tried to get Crowley to join him, but the one time he did, the demon ended up getting underfoot everywhere, making a nuisance of himself, and generally creating havoc. After that day, Crowley preferred to wait in the Bentley or a nearby coffee shop until his angel was finished.1

One afternoon, Aziraphale rushed back to the Bentley, carrying a large box. His eyes were bright with excitement and Crowley could feel his eager enthusiasm before he had even crossed the street.

Crowley got out of the car to open the boot and Aziraphale carefully placed the box inside. He smiled ardently at his demon. “Crowley, where can I get something called a ‘Video Cassette Recorder?’” He enunciated the words carefully.

Blinking behind his sunglasses, Crowley looked at the angel as if he had just unfurled his wings in the middle of Oxford Street. At noon. In December. On a weekend.

“No one uses, _he- er, heav, ugh someone_ \- knows . . .- no one even _owns_ a VCR anymore, Angel. What do you want one for?” Crowley thought that maybe Aziraphale might be ready for an iPhone by 2060 at the earliest at this rate.

“I came across a bunch of books and tapes just now and this show looks like it would be a delight to watch, good versus evil and all.” His blue eyes were sparkling with excitement and enthusiasm.

“There are even books written about some of the episodes and one of the main actors went on to write several novels about his character. I was told that’s something called fan fiction, my dear,” Aziraphale cheerfully said. 

Crowley tried not to laugh. He just nodded. He didn’t dare mention that he had invented it.2

Crowley only half listened as the angel continued to go on about this show, something about space and freedom fighters and doing what’s right as they drove at a fairly reasonable speed through Central London.3 He nodded appropriately at the right moments and Aziraphale was none the wiser.

A few days later, Aziraphale was sat comfortably with popcorn and wine in front of his ancient television, eyes glued to the screen. The television, according to Crowley, would have looked more at home in an antiques shop. In fact, it looked suspiciously like the model that was used in a relatively recent episode of Doctor Who.4

Crowley sauntered in and flopped down on the sofa beside Aziraphale as he tossed his sunglasses to the coffee table, nearly dislodging the bowl of popcorn. 

“Do you mind?” Aziraphale snapped, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen.

Crowley rolled his eyes and snatched a handful of popcorn. He then made a show of it, tossing up each individual kernel into the air and catching them with his mouth. It was almost it was like he was trying to be as obnoxious as possible.

Aziraphale tried to focus on the show. It was hard with Crowley’s close proximity; his leather clad thigh was pressed into his. Moreover, Crowley had stopped fussing with the popcorn and was watching the angel watch television. His eyes went back and forth like he was attending a tennis match.

The demon couldn’t help but notice that Aziraphale’s pupils dilated whenever a certain character appeared on screen. Crowley continued to watch Aziraphale’s reactions, an amused look on his face.

He was being so distracting that Aziraphale finally paused the episode with a snap of his fingers. Unfortunately for the angel, the screen happened to freeze on a dark-haired character, resplendent in red leather.5 He blushed furiously.

“See something you like, Angel?” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale sat up straighter on the sofa, trying to look as prim as possible for someone holding a giant bowl of popcorn. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Crowley,” he huffed haughtily, refusing to look in the demon’s direction.

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the television show resumed. He made a point of not saying anything else, merely spending an equal part of the time watching the show and Aziraphale.

Once the last episode on the tape had been aired and all the popcorn had been eaten, did Crowley finally speak again. “That Avon’s a right bastard. I like him.” He grinned, serpentine eyes glinting with mischief.

“That may be true,” Aziraphale replied. “But he’s usually right.” The angel pursed his lips, in thought for a moment. 

“I think he is on his own side,” he finally said.

“Well, wait ‘til you see what he does to Bl . . ..” Crowley was cut off by Aziraphale pressing a finger to his lips.

“Don’t you spoil this for me, you foul fiend!” 

“Ssssspoil what, Angel?” Crowley hissed, flicking his tongue against the finger still pressed to his lips.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Aziraphale whispered, before pulling Crowley in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Or that might have been a strongly worded request from his angel.  
> 2: Why not? It’s not really evil though, merely a temptation, I should say. It certainly tempts me out of a lot of more practical things, like work.  
> 3: 75 miles per hour is a bit more sedate than the usual 90.  
> 4: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Idiot%27s_Lantern  
> 5: https://pauldarrow.tumblr.com/image/154084939795
> 
>  
> 
> One of these days, I'll figure out how to do these properly.


	13. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale settled in for a quiet night, gets more than he bargained for.

It was a terribly cold and rainy night in London. The usual wanderers and revellers in Soho had long since gone home or retired to a warm pub in search of a meal or hot beverage. 

Aziraphale had long since settled down in his back room with a mug of cocoa and a book. He’d lit a fire and the room was warm and toasty. He was lost in the world his book had brought alive when there was a loud crash at the front of his shop.

Alarmed, Aziraphale hurried into the main room of the book shop to find a very damp and dishevelled demon standing there, rain and wind still blowing through the open door. The angel hurried forward, closing the door with a wave of his hand; the rain was getting in. Silly demon, he thought.

“What on earth happened to you?” Aziraphale asked, now standing in front of Crowley. He was soaked to the skin and shivering, water dripping from his sodden hair and running down his face in rivulets. A small puddle had gathered at his feet. His face looked haunted and despairing and the angel wondered what was could have possibly caused that look on the demon’s face.

Crowley opened his mouth to reply, but instead lurched forward with a sneeze.

“Oh, bless you, you poor thing! Come, let’s get you warm and dry, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said, taking Crowley’s hand.

Still shivering, the demon let himself be led into the other room, which was substantially warmer. He then quickly pulled away from Aziraphale to sneeze again.

“Oh goodness! Bless you, Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed. With a snap of his fingers, Crowley was changed into what he hoped was a suitable change in dress; warm, soft and most importantly, dry. 

Aziraphale led the demon to the couch and set about fretting over him, fetching a towel, glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Once he had set the bottle and glasses down, he began to gently dry Crowley’s hair with the towel.

“There now, that’s better my dear,” Aziraphale said, looking Crowley over yet again. The demon still looked cold and despairing, especially now that he could see his eyes; while he had been fussing Crowley had removed his sunglasses and tossed them to the table. His amber eyes seemed vacant and melancholy. When Aziraphale took his hand, he found it as cold as ice.

“Oh, my dear sweet boy,” the angel murmured, pulling the damp haired demon close, so that his head rested on his own chest. “There now,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Crowley’s head.

Again, Aziraphale wondered exactly what had happened. Crowley hadn’t even reacted when he’d blessed him and normally that was an immediate cause for eye rolling and obnoxious comments and tirades. He just seemed to be in shock. 

There were few things that could reduce the demon to being speechless like this and Aziraphale couldn’t help but worry. There was little else he could do, he knew, until Crowley was ready to talk about it. So, he just held him tight to his chest and threaded comforting fingers through the demon’s still slightly damp hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 14 immediately follows from Crowley's perspective.


	14. Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the children that always get to Crowley.

It was always the children that got to Crowley. Ever since the Ark, he could not stand when children were harmed or forsaken.

He had been on his way to the bookshop when he saw a huddled shape in a doorway. It didn’t look large enough to be an adult, so he stopped to have a look. After millennia on earth, he couldn’t believe he still had the ability to be astounded by the cruelty of human beings. 

The child, the girl, could have been no more than ten; twelve at a stretch. She was barely conscious, with dirty and festering wounds. He could feel her fevered skin before he even touched her, and she was barely clinging to life. It looked like she had just been discarded, like the previous night’s takeaway. 

Without thinking, he miracled them both to the closest A&E. He left her with a nurse, saying that he found her outside the hospital doors. Once she had been taken away, he hurried back the way he came, miracling his presence in hospital away to keep questions from being asked.

He hoped he hadn’t been too late. He might have even prayed.

As he left, the heaven’s opened up, and the rain came down. He wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a comfort or a warning. However, it did a marvellous job of hiding the tears of a demon. 

He was unsure how long he walked in the pouring rain, but he found himself in front of the only place he could take solace; the only place where redemption ever happened. The only place he could love and be loved. The only place he could ever truly call home.

He let Aziraphale coddle him, dry him off and fuss over him without a word. He listened as the angel murmured platitudes and was comforted by his gentle touches and angelic warmth. And then finally, he began to talk.


	15. Victoriana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which one of them is the bigger drama queen? You decide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People have been tweeting and tumblring about the prompts/scenarios/hilarious bits from the WrongOmens twitter account and talking about writing snippets or stories or whatever from them. I read a very happy/sad/emotional/omg I'm going to rend my garments and cry for a month fic earlier and needed to write something stupid to cheer myself up. This is the result.
> 
> From the tweet: https://twitter.com/wrongomens/status/1150041495480799233

It was early one evening, meaning that only two bottles of wine had been consumed thus far. Aziraphale was sat in his chair, reading glasses on, book in front of him. He wasn’t really reading; it was more for effect.

Crowley was lounging against a bookshelf, wine glass in hand, looking decorative. He had stood up to wander after the first bottle had been finished, and had been wandering about the stacks, peering at titles, running his fingers annoyingly along the spines- purely to tick off his angel, of course. He was stood there, dust motes circling around him, and abruptly sneezed.

“Bless you!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh, I feel so loved— blessed by an angel! I might combust!” He bowed dramatically, wine nearly spilling over the top of his glass.

Aziraphale looked at him over his reading glasses. “I just didn’t want Satan to climb up your nose.”

Crowley stood there, a blank stare on his face. His inner monologue went something along the lines of _‘what the fuck?’_

Aziraphale hummed to himself. “The Victorians had such weird beliefs,” he said, pausing a moment. 

“Did you ever come across anyone who used arsenic to increase their _romantic_ feelings, my dear? I can’t say I ever did,” Aziraphale said. “So terribly fascinating, those Victorians, if not a bit odd.”

Crowley took off his sunglasses and stared at Aziraphale, blinking several times at him in absolute disbelief.

The Guardian of the Eastern Gate regarded Crowley carefully, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Next time just say, ‘thank you,’ and I’ll spare you the history lesson.”


	16. Out of the mouths of babes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one of those scenario/prompts from the WrongOmens twitter.
> 
> https://twitter.com/wrongomens/status/1150973713652834305

Aziraphale had persuaded Crowley to pay a visit on the former Anti-Christ, so they found themselves sat in Jasmine Cottage with both Adam and Anathema one damp Saturday. Out of nowhere Adam asked:

“What’s the best way to kill someone?”

Immediately, Anathema replied with, “Kindness.”

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses and pondered the best way to kill someone that he could explain to an eleven-year-old boy. Before he could elaborate himself, Aziraphale spoke up.

“If we were being stealthy, then potassium cyanide, but otherwise, anything from a regular knife to a bazooka would work.”

The three other beings in the room stared at the angel in a mixture of confusion, wonder and disbelief.

Crowley, who was feeling a mix of all three said, “And now WHY do you know all of this?”

Aziraphale smiled brightly. “Books, my dear boy, books!” He explained cheerfully.

Crowley rolled his eyes again, so hard in fact, that it was very obvious to everyone in the room that he had done so.

Aziraphale laughed at the demon’s antics. “Well, that and all of those Bond films you’ve subjected me to over the ages,” he said with a satisfied grin, immensely glad that he was able to completely floor Crowley after all of these years.

Crowley was now staring at his angel with a mixture of wonder, amusement and something else that eleven-year-old boys probably shouldn’t be quite so aware of yet.

Anathema, reading the room, immediately changed the subject to the upcoming town festival and hopefully Adam was none the wiser.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: He wasn’t; he knew exactly what was going on.


	17. Happiness is for other people

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is maudlin.

Happiness is for other beings; Crowley thinks to himself. He’s stood on the rooftop of the building his flat in Mayfair, bottle of whiskey in hand, watching the nightlife of London pass by below. People hurrying to and fro, calling out to one another, drinking, laughing. 

_Loving._

They’ve no idea the world has nearly just ended and, are happy to continue on with their lives, oblivious. Crowley doesn’t really object, so to speak, but he thought after the world didn’t end that things might actually be different. 

He thought after he stopped fucking _time_ , things would be different. 

He thought after facing _hellfire_ things would most certainly be different.

Instead, they have stayed exactly the same.

So, he’s come to the conclusion that happiness is for other people. Happiness is most certainly not for pathetic, pining demons who have been waiting and _hoping_ for millennia. 

He drinks some more and ignores the tears that gather in the corner of his serpentine eyes and streak down his face, like fat raindrops on a windowpane.


	18. Migraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley just wants to enjoy the spring day, but his body has other plans.

It was an extraordinarily bright spring day, the kind of day that clears the cobwebs off a long, grey winter. Crowley had met Aziraphale in the park and they spent an enjoyable hour feeding the ducks. It was then the headache began, slowly at first; tiny sparks of light behind his eyes, and the start of pulsing tension around his temples. Crowley ignored it, against his better judgment, intent on soaking up the sun’s rays and spending time with his angel.

After buying Aziraphale an ice cream (he had passed on one for himself as by this time the pulsing had turned into pounding; like a drum keeping time in a marching band), he had hoped to slither back home, to his dark flat where he could lay across silk sheets until the roaring and throbbing in his head passed. But Aziraphale had insisted he come and take a look at this book he had just procured, and Crowley had never, ever been able to deny the angel a damn thing.

By the time they arrived in Soho, Crowley’s head hurt so much that he could feel his pulse pounding in time with the throbbing and clanging in his head. The sparks of light behind his eyes had become stars going supernova, and he felt increasingly nauseous and lightheaded. He just managed to keep pace with Aziraphale, nodding in what he hoped were the right places and was only on his feet through force of will and because he was digging his nails so hard into his palms, he was close to drawing blood.

It was only when they were finally in the bookshop, did Aziraphale notice anything was out of the ordinary; so lost he had been in telling the tale of his latest acquisition. 

Crowley was standing against the door of the shop, which was rather an understatement; the door was merely keeping him barely upright. He was trembling, pale, and beads of sweat had formed on his brow.

“Crowley? Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked worriedly. He walked back across the book shop, scrutinising the demon carefully.

“Ngh,” Crowley managed to moan, before sliding to the floor unceremoniously, one hand tangled in his hair.

“Oh, my dear!” Aziraphale exclaimed fretfully, falling to his knees before Crowley. He reached out hesitantly to take the demon’s hand. It was cool and clammy to the touch and he felt immediately guilty for not noticing that Crowley was in considerable distress and looked like he had been for some time. 

Aziraphale ran his warm thumb back and forth across the top of top of Crowley’s hand. “Whatever is the matter, my dear boy?”

“Headache,” Crowley finally managed to get out, with a strangled moan. The hand that was still tangled in his damp hair was trying to rub at his temple, but the action was futile. The pounding was at a crescendo, roaring and raving in his ears, echoing throughout his entire body.

Aziraphale thought that the word _headache_ , was a rather mild choice of word for what the demon was currently experiencing. He was not sure ‘migraine’ would suffice at this juncture, but that was purely semantics, and entirely irrelevant.

“Do you think you can stand?” Aziraphale asked, his voice barely a whisper in deference to the turmoil Crowley was suffering.

Crowley slowly shook his head in the negative and then winced, his entire face grimacing painfully with the effort. He hissed in pain.

Speaking in the same whispered tone, Aziraphale murmured, “Don’t worry, my dear boy. I’ve got you.” He took both of Crowley’s hands in his, and seconds later they were upstairs in the flat over the shop. 

Aziraphale had quickly conducted a series of minor miracles prior to moving them, including putting blackout curtains over the windows and turning off all the lights. He made sure the sheets were cool and comfortable (and they would stay that way until Crowley was feeling better) and changed them both into appropriate sleeping attire. Once he got Crowley settled on the bed, his head arranged carefully and gently in the angel’s lap, he slowly removed his sunglasses, causing Crowley to hiss in agony once more.

“There, there my dear. Just one second now,” he whispered, replacing the sunglasses with a sleep mask. 

The angel then placed an ice pack over Crowley’s forehead. “Is that too cold?” Azirpahale quietly enquired.

“Ssss’fine,” Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale shifted slightly and then began to gently run his fingers through Crowley’s hair. The demon moaned at the touch, and once the angel realised it was indeed helping, he miracled some peppermint oil and began to rub it soothingly into his temples, stroking as gently as he could.

“Nnnggh,” Crowley whined. The soothing touch of Aziraphale’s manicured nails was a gentle balm to the roaring and pounding in his head.

Aziraphale smiled to himself. “Ssshhh now, my dear,” he whispered and began to rub the demon’s elegant neck, fretting as he felt the knots and incredible tension that had gathered in the muscles and tendons there. 

Crowley whimpered again, shivering. Aziraphale pulled the silk sheet up and over the demon and then followed it with an impossibly soft blanket, before resuming his ministrations, being as cautious as possible.

The infernal pain began to recede slowly, easing off like the tide going out. The roaring in his head deteriorated soon after, allowing him to curl up on his side, head still in Aziraphale’s lap. He heard the angel laugh softly and the ghost of a smile crossed his face. As he slithered into slumber, he was certain he felt the angel press a kiss into the top of his head.


	19. Blood Types

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley asks a fairly ridiculous question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Wrong Omens twitter: https://twitter.com/wrongomens/status/1151481928681426944

It was a quiet evening; a demon and an angel were on their second bottle of wine. Crowley, lounging across the sofa, was biting at a cuticle out of boredom. Out of nowhere he asked, “What's your blood type?”

From his position in his armchair, Aziraphale turned slightly to look more directly at Crowley, raising both eyebrows. “How would I know?” What a very odd question, he thought. And it wasn’t as if they were even remotely close to being drunk, when questions at random would be asked and answered.

Crowley, all limbs, flung himself around so that he was closer to the armchair than moments before. He just missed knocking the bottle of wine over. 

“How you NOT know your vessel's blood type?” He pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head and peered tipsily at Aziraphale. Perhaps he had more wine than he thought.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Do I look like Karl Landsteiner, discoverer of blood groups?”

The demon scoffed. “You don't know your vessel's blood type, but you know who discovered them?" He sounded incredulous. 

The angel sighed heavily. Of course he knew who discovered blood types; that sort of information was found in books, and he was proprietor of a book shop! 

“I’ve never had any reason to have my blood typed, my dear boy. It’s not as if either of us needs to pop into see a GP or has needed surgery,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley pondered that for a moment and then reached for his wine glass. “They,” he said, pointing upwards, “didn’t give you a card?” He drank the remaining wine from his glass and then refilled it.

This time Aziraphale rolled his eyes and shook his head simultaneously. “No, Crowley they did not. They gave me a sword and sent me off to guard the Eastern Gate.” And fend off the likes of you, and look where that’s got me, he thought.

“Which you promptly gave away,” Crowley muttered under his breath, giggling.

Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, shook his head fondly at the wily serpent, and reached over for the bottle of wine. He certainly was going to need it, if this was the way the evening was going to progress.


	20. Wanting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wants.

Aziraphale looked over at a napping Crowley, softly lit by the dimmed lamps of the book shop. Long limbed, sharply dressed, quick witted Crowley. The demon could have anyone he wanted looking like that, the angel thought.

He looked down at himself, tartan, cream and beige; soft where the demon was hard lines and angles. Frowning, he fidgeted with his waistcoat and wondered if Gabriel hadn’t been just a tiny bit correct. 

The angel picked up his wine glass to have a sip and then put it back down again. Glaring at the glass, he concentrated a moment until it became whiskey, and then downed the remainder in one swift motion.

Crowley shifted in his sleep, the lines softening around his eyes. Aziraphale smiled fondly at his friend. In slumber, the demon was peaceful. 

He then continued to watch Crowley sleep, having learned to be content with what he had in front of him and tried not to think about what he could not have; what he desired, what he yearned for. _Wanting _was so unbecoming of an angel. It was a good thing he hardly cared about that, if he ever did at all.__

__We’re always going to want just a little bit longer, hold just that much tighter, love that much stronger. Or, as the angel thinks, wait and hope eternally- forever._ _


	21. Freckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale really likes Crowley's freckles.

The second time Aziraphale and Crowley made love, the angel paid particular attention to the demon’s freckles. He kissed each and every one, from the ones on his cheekbones all the way down to the ones on his calves. The angel loved Crowley’s freckles and had been thrilled to find that they weren’t just on the demon’s face but were speckled all over his body, like the constellations he once made.

Crowley should have known that his angel would be just as hedonistic in his lovemaking in the same way he devoured books, crêpes and fine wines. He slithered around on the bed, writhing beneath Aziraphale’s rather sinful tongue and soft, sensuous lips.

“ _Angel_!” Crowley moaned, wriggling beneath Aziraphale, thrusting his hips up to bring his hardness in contact with his angel’s.

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley didn’t understand how Aziraphale sounded so _calm_ , especially while he was currently swirling his tongue around his nipple.

The demon tried to rock his cock up against Aziraphale’s once more, but his angel pulled just far back enough to avoid contact. He whined in frustration.

“Patience, my love,” Aziraphale whispered and went back to slowly kissing down Crowley’s chest; nipping and biting at every bit of skin with a freckle that he could see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I'm having such writers block/issues right now, so any little piece I can scrape up is a blessing from Aziraphale right now.


	22. Grieving

Crowley had just finished a temptation assignment in Dublin when it happened. He felt the loss to the world immediately, like a freight train slamming into him full force. He managed to find a bench off the main road to collapse on but ended up falling to his knees instead. 

The pain wrenched through him and he cried out, keening, sobbing. Tears coursed down his face as he bawled, bordering on hysteria. The clouds above, which had been threatening and dark all day, grieved with him; the heavens opening above him. She has some sense of irony, Crowley thought.

Sheets of rain mixed with his tears as he continued to sob. “No,” he moaned. “ _No_.”

As quickly as it started, the rain stopped. Crowley looked heavenward to blaspheme and cry and grieve, but all he could see was white.

“Angel,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said. He knelt in the wet grass and mud beside Crowley, ignoring the cold and the damp; he would sort it with a quick miracle in a moment. What was important right now, was that Crowley needed him. As soon as he had heard, he reached out with his angelic powers and felt the demon’s agony. He had immediately rushed to his side.

“I am so, so sorry, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said, pulling a soaking wet Crowley to him. The angel pressed a kiss into the demon’s damp hair and held him while he cried and continued to do so, long after the tears stopped falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the reader's choice as to whom Crowley is grieving for.


	23. Bandstand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the bandstand. . .

After Crowley told him to have a nice doomsday, Aziraphale stood under the bandstand for quite a long time. He didn’t know what to think or believe any longer; the crisis of faith that had been brewing was now at its peak. The archangels had ignored his pleas and Crowley had suggested that they kill the antichrist and run off together. 

He knew there was only one entity that could help him now. The only problem with that, was that he hadn’t heard her voice in 6000 years.

By the time he came back to his senses, the sky had long been dark, and it had begun to rain. He looked out into the park and saw the bare trees and the cold, unyielding rain falling in sheets. 

Not knowing what else to do, Aziraphale sank to his knees and wept.


	24. Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale hasn't seen Crowley for a while. He starts to fret.

_Sometime in the few years prior to the birth of the antichrist  
Soho, a book shop_

 

Aziraphale frowned, as he closed his copy of Wilde’s The Happy Prince. He had been unable to focus on reading, or organising his books, or doing any rebinding for days now. It had been some time since he had heard from Crowley, and he was starting to worry. Not very angelic of him, he thought to himself. He twisted his ring around his finger absently as he fretted.

Granted, he had previously gone centuries without seeing or running into the demon, but it had been a few months now, and he had been used to having his company every few weeks or so. Sighing, he straightened his waistcoat and rose from his armchair. Perhaps a cup of tea would do; perhaps it would keep him from worrying. 

The angel made his tea, and as he sat drinking it, his thoughts continued to wander towards the demon. He could go and visit him; he knew where Crowley lived. But for some reason, that seemed like such an imposition. 

He shook his head, and placing his tea down, he picked up his book once more. Crowley was probably off wiling and tempting, and he’d turn up eventually, wine or whisky in hand.

The following morning, Aziraphale woke with a crick in his neck. He must have dozed off reading at some point during the night. He rose, cracking his neck, relishing the feeling as everything popped back into place. It was just approaching sunrise, and the book shop was dim, shadows around every corner. As he went to make sure the ‘Closed’ sign was still facing outward, he noticed a small box on the floor.

Cautiously, he approached it. It didn’t look dangerous. Aziraphale bent down and picked up the box, finding a black card beneath. He grinned broadly. _Crowley_ , he thought to himself.

Aziraphale carried the box and card back to the back room and settled down in his chair to open it. The neat silver writing on the inside of the card read:

_Angel, saw these and thought of you._

_-C._

With careful fingers, the Principality opened the box. Inside were a pair of golden angel wing cufflinks, glinting in the soft morning light.

 _Oh, my dear_ , the angel thought. He certainly hoped Crowley would come by soon, so he could properly thank him. He would need to treat him to a bottle of wine, and he had just the vintage that the demon would enjoy. As Aziraphale went to fetch it, he realised he didn’t need to worry about his longtime companion any longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come and be excited with me over ineffable husbands on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Cindy_C75) and [tumblr](https://antheas-blackberry.tumblr.com/)


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